


Dick move Winchester.

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dancing, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No more bravado and horse shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dick move Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> Fall out from Dean's treatment of Sam after purgatory.

Nails gouging grooves out of filthy beer soaked wood. Eyes flashing a warning that isn't being heeded.

'I want you to know, that I'm happy for you  
I wish nothing but the best for you both'

Lights flickering, music down low, base heavy and thrumming. A long, lithe body being touched in ways that should be illegal, punishable by death.

'An older version of me  
Is she perverted like me  
Would she go down on you in a theatre'

Every time the Canadian chick on the sound system spits another line, the brunette man with vengeance written all over his face sways provocatively. Unhindered by the knowledge that out of all the pairs of eyes on him, their's one set with murder firmly fixed.

'cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able  
To make it enough for you to be open wide, no  
And every time you speak her name  
Does she know how you told me you'd hold me  
Until you died, till you died  
But you're still alive'

The lyrics run a knife threw the middle of a heart that can't make it's mind up whether he's going to follow through on this threat.

He left, he left his old life, his old feelings, his old heartbreaks. And he left the one slice of normal he was ever gonna get, all for a man who prefers the touch of ice to fire, of the undead to living.

So what, if he prefers to feel of creeping death to family and promises of a better tomorrow.

He wasn't even given the chance to explain, to tell him, to throw himself open and let the other pick up the pieces, they way they'd always done.

'And I'm here to remind you  
Of the mess you left when you went away  
It's not fair to deny me  
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me  
You, you, you oughta know'

There wasn't a second in any hour across any day that Sam didn't wish he could follow Dean to wherever it was Dean'd gone.

He couldn't find him, not in any spell books, or ancient rituals, not in the deepest recesses of his heart. That's what'd finally convinced Sam to try and leave his brother to what ever paradise he'd managed to find.

Because the only way Sam would stop feeling Dean right there, beating a staccato rhythm under his skin, would've been, could only have been if Dean had found peace.

Once he'd returned, once Sam had heard Deans voice on the end of a crackling line, his whole world had come back into sharp focus.

He'd driven so fast and so hard he'd almost broken the needle, almost ripped the tyres from the rims just to get back within breathing distance of his brother.

And then, his brother had turned on him.

'You seem very well, things look peaceful  
I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know  
Did you forget about me Mr. Duplicity  
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner  
It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced  
Are you thinking of me when you fuck her?'

It was clear to Sam right from the word go, that Dean wasn't telling him everything, but then again Dean hadn't allowed Sam chance to get a whole sentence out since he'd told him he hadn't looked.

Ass move Sammy.

He'd been kicking himself ever since for not starting that explanation right.

But it still burned that Dean'd been so ready to believe the worst in his brother. In the man he'd spent almost every waking moment with since they'd come crashing back into each other's lives.

He'd done some dumb shit over the years. age, wisdom, they're kickers, but come on, how many times had Sam proven that, despite his really stupid need to do the wrong thing for the right reasons, that he was always, always gonna dredge the rivers of Hades itself to try and bring the one thing he couldn't live without back.

That was part of the reason they'd lost so many nights to bitterness and regret in the first place.

And Dean'd still chosen to instantly believe his brother was capable of just 'letting him go'.

So be it.

Benny floats Dean's boat, Benny's the only thing that's never let Dean down. Then screw him. Or not, as it turns out.

Sam allows himself to feel the music pulse up through his feet, into the coiled muscles. Too tense to do anything but make another dumb fucking decision.

The guy in front of him isn't bad looking. Only a couple of inches shorter than Sam himself, which is impressive against his 6'4 frame.

And he smells of dust and motor oil, of one too many whiskey's and stale smoke.

The scent that will forever be emblazoned across Sam's soul.

He can feel other people turning to watch as he closes his eyes and sways in the guys arms. He doesn't care that this might not be a place that two guys can get away with this sort of shit in public.

He needs to feel the scrape of nails on flesh and heat seeping through denim. Even if it is the wrong set of hands holding him up.

'cause the joke that you laid on the bed that was me  
And I'm not gonna fade  
As soon as you close your eyes and you know it  
And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back  
I hope you feel it...well can you feel it'

The minute Sam let's his head loll backwards, and his body thrum with the beat, Dean know's where this is going, he's seen it close up so many times. And he doesn't know whether to step in and slap the shit out of Sam for even thinking it, or kill the guy pawing what isn't fucking his.

Up until Sam had found out about Benny and Dean's less than platonic interactions in monster hell, Dean had been riding his ass for leaving him behind for some chick and a bow legged mutt. Up until he'd seen the fragile bubble of bullshit round Sam's heart come crashing down around his knees, and then he'd realised exactly what a dumb fucking stupid dick he'd made.

Of course Sam'd looked, whether Dean'd let him explain or not. There isn't a universe in which Sam wouldn't hunt down god himself to rip him a new one if it meant getting his brother back.

It'd taken a five minute phone call to Sheriff Mills to fill in the pieces, and five minutes later, Dean'd been out the door, frantically searching the unfamiliar surrounding for his lanky, pain in the ass brother to kick him and kiss him and tell him it'd never been anyone else, just fills in and fuck ups and useless attempts at bridging a void he couldn't cross.

And now he's stood here, listening to some chick who can't play her instruments screech about betrayal and getting a head ache from forcing himself to not stride out onto dance floor and rip cowboy-boot-wearing-man-whore's head off.

Fucking hands all over something that wasn't fucking his. How dare he, how dare Sam.

Dean's not totally oblivious to the irony and sheer hypocrisy of that.

He'd been flaunting his new and shiny hook up in Sam's face an hour ago, just to get a rise out of him. And judging by the way Sam's ass is happily cupped in another guy's hands, it'd worked.

Rise accomplished.

Shit.

The song finishes but Sam just keeps dipping and twisting right on into the next one and Dean growls low and menacing when he sees the guy getting a personal lap dance, lick his lips and grin.

Hell fucking no.

Not on his fucking watch.

He didn't just walk his ass here to have to walk out knowing Sam's gonna get nailed by some dirty drunk skank because Dean'd been too fucking stupid to see what was right in front of him.

Like it always is.

Sam.

There's a five foot gap between him and any other human being. No one can miss the murderous thoughts rolling off his tensed shoulders and Dean's gotta figure out how to get Sam out of here without either screwing him across the bar to mark his territory and getting them arrested for lude behaviour, or wrapping his hands so tight round the Stetson wearing prick and ringing the life right outta him.

Sam's concentrating on nothing but the feel of hands curves and angles pressing into him when he doesn't so much hear as sense the guy he's gyrating in front of recoil and suck in a frightened breath.

Opening his eyes, he turns and sees Dean staring down the guy he was about to let take him out back and fuck him til he couldn't walk straight.

Anything to try and rut the image of Benny and Dean twisted together out of his poor abused psyche.

"Dean!"

"You and me, we need to talk, now!"

Dean can see this isn't gonna go smooth, Sam's too pissed, and if he's honest, which is very bloody rare, and never something he's gonna admit to anyone out loud, he doesn't blame him for it.

He's been a dick for weeks. Throwing comments he knows are gonna cut because he was hurting to much himself to realise how hard Sam'd been trying not to break in front of him.

"Sod off, busy."

Doesn't seem to matter that the guy who thought he was about to get lucky, has gone deadly still, Sam's still pumping his hips and enjoying the beat, and Dean's discomfort.

Well, whether Deans and inch shorter than this dude, and probably a good 20 pounds lighter, the bloke is still almost pissing his pants. And let's face it, wouldn't you be faced with what looks like a serial killer on holiday throwing daggers at you from two inches away.

"Uh, um, I'm just gonna..."

And he's gone. Just like that. Practically running across the bar and out the door.

Don't let it hit you in the ass moron.

"Fuck sake Sam. Don't make me make a scene. We don't need another arrest under our belts. Specially seen as we're meant to be dead"

Sam whirls on Dean so fast he's almost knocked off his feet.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare come the high and mighty with me you...you..."

Sam's so angry he's spitting and snarling. Quiet, right down low, menacing and deathly.

It's not fooling Dean, never has, never will.

Under all the anger is one tightly balled knot of sheer unadulterated pain. And once again, Dean put it there and Dean's gotta figure a way past the hatred to the truth.

Dean does the only thing he can think in a bar full of rednecks with baseball bat collections. It's a dumb assed move, especially seen as the music's so loud they wouldn't here a posse of white hoods coming up behind them, but Dean can think of nothing else to shock Sam out of this downward spiral of venom he's got going on.

Lunging forward, grabbing a fist full of shirt, Dean drags Sam down to his eye level, stares hard, really hard, attempting to throw everything he's thinking directly into his brother's brain, "I'm sorry."

And then he's sucking on Sam's bottom lip. Hard enough to bruise and bring all the blood to the surface.

Sam struggles against Dean's grip, pushing back, flat palmed against his chest, but Dean's not letting go.

It's been a year and far too fucking long since Dean's had the taste of Sam's anger in his mouth and he's not letting go now, not when this might be his only chance he's got to Sammy see how wrong he knows he's been.

He stops suckling for a moment, long enough to grit out,

"Please. I'm sorry...should've known."

It's too much, Sam can't take it. He's spent the last month staring at Dean's mouth, remembering the feel and the taste and the need. And not being able to touch, to even get close enough to pretend to touch.

And now Dean's practically throwing himself at him in a bar full of strangers and Sam can't see past the tiny little holes in soul that the distance has created.

Refusing to remove his hands from Sam's shirt, just incase gigantor makes a break, Dean cocks an eyebrow, come on Sammy, laying myself out here.

What comes next will take a life time, possibly two, to erase from Dean's memory, and it breaks his heart in half. He can feel his own essence seeping out of his bloody soul. God who turned him into a friggin' poet laureate!

Sam stops struggling, stops fighting, leans in, forehead to forehead, and whispers,

"I can't. Please, I can't..."

Dean fights the urge to haul his baby brother into a bone crunching hug and drags him off the dance floor and out the door. He can't carry this on in full view of the public, he'll definitely get their heads kicked in.

He yanks Sam by the front of his shirt, finds a secluded alleyway, dark enough to hide two hulking hunters from view, and throws Sam up against the wall. Back slamming so hard Dean thinks he hears Sam's shoulders crack. Never letting go of his shirt, never breaking contact for a second.

"Sammy, please."

Sam hangs his head, refuses Dean any eye contact, that hurts, that cuts worse than the look on Sam's face.

"De..I tried, and I can't."

Dean's heart kicks straight into panic mode.

He's seen Sam broken, he's seen him angry, hell he's seen him bat shit naked and trying to ignore Lucy while they fuck like rabid rabbits.

He's never seen him look so alone, and Dean doesn't know how to bring him back, bring him over the edge and back into the warmth.

And it's all his own fucking fault.

Dean uncurls his fists, it's almost painful he's been holding on so tight.

He puts his hands either side of Sam's head, leans forward far enough to breath into Sam's mouth and just lets go.

No more bravado and horse shit.

It's make or break and Dean is not gonna let it be break, not now. It's been eight years and too many fuck ups to let him go now.

"Sammy, I spent a year fighting my way out of a place you couldn't even call hell, hell is a sunny vacation spot to where I've been battling my ass off, and I spent that entire year trying to get back to you."

Sam turns his head away, just a fraction, screws his eyes shut against the spark of something he can't even call hope. He can't take the look on Dean's face, it's too painful. To think what that look might mean.

"Dean, you...Benny."

Dean's heart shatters all over again. He'd give his left jewel to take back everything he'd slung at Sam about Benny. It'd been anger and hurt and misunderstanding.

Not truth. Never truth.

Taking a hand from the wall, he cups Sam's stubbly cheek, runs the pad of his thumb over Sam's lips, and leans in even closer,

"I didn't mean it. None of it. Please. I'm literally begging here man, baby brother, there has never been anyone else."

Sam snorts.

"You know what I mean! Please. God Sammy, I don't do fucking begging and look at this, look at me. If I didn't wanna convince you how wrong I was, I'd cut my own fucking tongue out for the shit I said to you back there."

Dean sees when he's getting through. The smallest hint of something. Squaring of shoulders, tug at the corner of Sam's mouth, little bit of what lights up Dean's world sliding back into Sam's eyes.

"Be a waste."

Dean takes it as the olive branch it is. Bent and broken and twisted into splinters, but he takes it and tucks it away.

"Don't you know it!"

Sam exhales slowly, sounding as though someone's just lifted an anvil off his chest, and slides his hands into Dean's hair,

"Missed you."

Dean leans his forehead against Sam's and inhales his brother's unique scent,

"So much."

Dean's words bring about a change in Sam that he's been hoping for, praying for, no more limp acquiescence, there's fire returning to his touch and Dean finds himself bodily pinned to the opposite wall of the alley.

Wind knocked from his lungs and loving it.

"Dean."

"Take it Sammy."

That's all. Two words, and Sam's moving so fast and rough that Dean can't quite untangle his feet enough not to stumble and head butt the wall as he's spun and braced, both hands above his head in one of Sam's ridiculously large ones.

Free hand quick and jerky, Sam's ripping at the fly of Dean's trousers. Not enough big brain neurons firing to slow down and stop his hand from slipping.

Groaning deep in his throat, Dean angles himself he best he can to help his brother remove the barriers between them.

As the stinging cool air his already hard and seeping cock, Dean sucks in a breath over his teeth and feels devastation so profound when Sam takes his hand away from the front of his boxers.

He hears rustling and swearing and then he can feel Sam's equally hard cock pressing at him through thin fabric.

Sam slips Dean's boxers down his ass enough to press himself skin to skin. And the exchange of cold to hot almost makes Dean's legs give way.

Sam's already slicked with lube, and Dean steadfastly ignores the raging jealousy that Sam'd come prepared for someone else to be baring themselves to him and concentrates on the gentle but urgent fingers probing him.

It ain't pretty and it certainly ain't romantic, but damn it's hot, so fucking hot. Hot enough to burn a hole in his soul.

"Nrghh, Sam...Sammy, I need to..."

Dean bucks his hips and head butts the wall again when Sam slides home.

Dean's light headed, light headed enough to be murmuring nonsensical shit and begging, Dean never begs.

Taking pity, even though by rights he doesn't have to ever take pity on Dean again, he slides a hand between his brother's legs and takes his cock in his hands.

Bracing his knees against the tops of Dean's thighs, he uses their own momentum to hold them both up and thrusts his hips in time with the twist and slide of his hand.

"Dean, shit...can't hold...need to."

In between rubbish pleas to God, not that either one of them really wants an angelic visit right now, Dean manages to say exactly what Sam needs to hear,

"Come for me Sammy. Come with me. Never stop."

A shower of fireworks explode behind Sam's eyes as Dean let's himself pour over Sam's hand, tightening around Sam so hard Sam can't help slumping against his brother's sweat soaked, cloth covered back, banging his already abused head back into that damn wall.

It takes less time than normal to come down from the clouds, seen as they've just rutted like rampant hounds in a darkened corner of a mostly unknown town.

Pulling out and away, Sam strips off his top shirt and gives Dean a quick once over before wiping himself off and tucking himself away.

Dean's movements are sluggish and sated.

Fumbling to do himself up, he turns, slumps against the wall, hooks two fingers in Sam's waistband and pulls him in for a gentle, simple, no tongue but lots of promise, kiss.

"Never letting go Sammy, never gonna stop showing you how sorry I am."

Sam's smiles into Dean's mouth,

"Promise?"

"Don't push me, bitch."

Sam opts for deepening the kiss instead of a reply and is rewarded with a slap to the ass and a chuckle.

Long road back, but one worth navigating..

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'Dick Move Winchester'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626005) by [stormbrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormbrite/pseuds/stormbrite)




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